


A Stroll on Thin Ice

by 0plus2equals1



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: failed attempts at diplomacy, for those into the idea of the dancer tearing them to shreds, gender neutral ashen one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 21:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11044839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0plus2equals1/pseuds/0plus2equals1
Summary: The Dancer of the Boreal Valley is an enigma that the Ashen One intends to solve.





	A Stroll on Thin Ice

The candles guttered out, yet there was no wind. The chamber grew dim and still, and the tepid air grew cold. The doors to the cathedral swung shut and the Ashen One turned with surprise.

Above the entranceway, swirling darkness grew and dripped frozen slush that splattered on the tiles far below. The undead could barely decipher winding limbs, pale blue fabric, and the glint of metal.

A form congealed out of the shadow and twisted out of the ceiling. A head swung downward and stretched, releasing whispering screams that made the Ashen One take a step back. The rest of the body quickly followed and fell lithely to the floor, landing with a quiet thud of steel on carpet. The Dancer of the Boreal Valley held two swords at her side, one of light and one of dark, and the bright flames only served to obscure the shadowy face within her helm further.

The Dancer moved with haunting grace, her face gliding close to the ground as she circled the undead. Flames trailed a path alongside sheer blue fabric, illuminating her glistening silver armor. The undead stood, transfixed, until a dangerous swipe of the Dancer’s blades made them roll to the side.

They lifted their shield and tried to keep their distance from the Dancer just as she trailed after them with long strides. She leaned forward, placing her weight on one knee and lunging ahead, swinging the flaming sword in a wide arc. The tip of it clashed off the undead’s shield with enough force to twist their elbow to the side. Before they could recover, the sword of dark came swooping down from above. It missed them by a hair as they stumbled to the side, and they swung their own weapon at the Dancer’s hand as she tugged the blade from the ground. Metal bit into flesh, and when the undead pulled away they saw dark blood dripping from the wound.

The Dancer crouched and looked at the cut, rolling her wrist in front of her helm. The undead was preparing to rush forward and attack when they heard what they swore was a _chuckle_ echo coldly in the darkness. In their astonishment, they did not see the blade swinging towards them on their right, swiping upwards into their knees and sending them stumbling. Her hand now reached out from the left, palm crashing into their helmet and sending them up into the air.

The blazing sword pierced them through. The undead felt their innards crumble to ash in the flames. Their arms and legs hung limp as the point penetrated even into the stone floor, leaving their body hanging on the blade a good few feet above the ground.

Somehow, they were still alive. Ragged breaths tore through their burning chest. The Dancer lowered her head, peering at their impaled body impassively. The undead groaned as the sword lifted and tilted to hold them horizontally, flames still lapping at their scorched armor. The Dancer drew closer, and the undead could see vague outlines of a face deep within the helm. As the sword held them aloft, the Dancer set her other blade at her side and held up her hand, her pointer finger curving and pressing against her thumb—

The impact rattled the undead’s brain within their skull and sent them hurtling off the sword and sliding across stone. As they finally lost momentum, their body came to rest in a heap at the entrance of the cathedral. As the absurdity of what had just happened dawned on them, they couldn’t help but laugh. The Dancer had _flicked_ them clear across the room.

They had barely managed to gulp down estus before a strong grip encircled their ankles and dragged them backwards. Their helmet rattled as they were pulled along, jostling to the point that it was half-off and their vision was limited to a thin strip of light across their right eye.

They could see the shadowed helm and the glinting diadem somewhere above them. An armor-clad hand reached forward and the undead barely managed to adjust their head in time to avoid it being pulled off with the helmet. They heard the armor land on the ground somewhere behind them with a loud clatter.

Now they could properly see, and they were not sure how to feel about what they saw. The Dancer was bowed over them, around them, and the atmosphere had grown chilling in a way that was not mere temperature.

She moved to rest her weight on her knees and lifted her hands. One heavy gauntlet pressed harshly against their neck. The other hand was now busy picking at their chestplate. The Ashen One had the sudden vision of a seabird pecking at a crab, piercing through the chitin armor to get the delicate flesh inside. The undead cried out as she pulled and the edges dug deep into their skin. Finally, blessedly, some key hinge or strap broke and the armor pulled free. The rags and smallclothes beneath were torn to shreds as she continued to grab and pull until warm, embered skin was exposed to frosty air.

The tip of the dark sword traveled in a freezing line down their belly and the undead panicked wildly at the thought that they had been gutted—but when the hand crushing their windpipe lifted they looked down and saw no wound. The relief was short lived as the Dancer’s hand reached underneath them and scooped them up. They tumbled roughly through her fingers until they landed again, face crashing against stone. Though they couldn’t see her head, they heard the long exhale of breath as she sighed shockingly close to their ear, the cold of it making them shiver. Though her manner was callous at best and murderous at worst, there was a timbre to her tone that set the undead’s thoughts spinning.

They had to find their weapon. It had fallen from their grip as they were being manhandled and now that they weren’t being held down it was the perfect opportunity to find it and retaliate. They drew their knees upwards and began to crouch, hoping to lunge in the direction of their dropped weapon—

The flat of the Dancer’s palm sent them crashing to the ground again and knocked the wind from their lungs. That damnable _laugh_ sounded once more as she drove their head against the floor. As she held them down the tip of a sword traveled from the small of their back to the nape of their neck—they couldn’t help but shudder—before being driven into the ground at a sharp angle beside their neck. The second sword followed and was struck at an opposite angle on the other side, leaving the two blades crossed and effectively pinioning them to the floor. If they twisted their head just so, they could see the now-dim flames lapping lazily along the metal. Beyond that, they only had peripheral glances of the Dancer’s thin limbs still crouched over their prone form.

When fighting the Lords of Cinder, the Ashen One had never quite been struck with fear. Death, after all, simply meant a return to a bonfire. There was panic during a battle, instinctive reactions meant to keep the body whole, but not nerve-quaking mind-dulling _fear_ of what their adversary might do.

Whatever this was, it was causing the undead to feel fear.

The sharp fingers of her metal gauntlet dragged slowly down their back.

They tensed and prepared for the killing blow.

It never came. The Dancer remained tensely coiled over them, her hoarse breathing echoing in the cathedral. The chill emanating from her form was raising goosebumps on their exposed skin. The undead thought back to Vordt, who could cause limb-blackening frostbite through mere proximity.

She still wasn’t moving and the Ashen One’s mind reeled. Not attacking, not retreating, not doing _anything_ —just keeping them pinned to the ground and making odd sounds in the back of her throat that registered somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

In any of their other encounters with outrider knights, the violence had been quick and bestial, blades and claws alike tearing at their entrails. The undead wondered if perhaps the Dancer had resisted the Pontiff’s influence strongly enough that she had not fallen to following base instinct as they had.

But if she was stationed within the cathedral to guard the entrance to upper Lothric, then her strange behavior made no sense. Beast or no, the most likely course of action for her to take would be to kill them, not toy with them as a cat would a mouse.

Perhaps, they wondered wildly, she had turned _against_ the Pontiff, had held some festering hatred safely hidden deep within that allowed her to ignore whatever commands she had been given. Her inaction could be evidence of an internal struggle between her own desires and the inevitable curse of the outriders.

The Dancer's hand slammed against the floor as she knelt over them. Slush dribbled out of her helm and splashed on the stone. Tears, the undead speculated, or drool.

Her fingers furrowed into their shoulderblades. The undead felt a rib crack with a pop of pain. Their estus was trapped beneath them, unreachable with the pressure currently crushing their back. The tips of the gauntlets dug deep and caused blood to well like water from a spring.

The Dancer let out a long, airy sigh. Tension seemed to escape from her limbs and she sank low, her wavering cape drifting around her like fog. The warmth, the undead thought faintly through the pain. A lost soldier hollowing a freshly killed elk, climbing within its ribs and waiting out the storm—

Blood nourished flame, the undead knew, for why else would bonfires be built upon bones—

The undead was no elk, and they knew from experience that they were unfit for kindling. The Dancer’s sigh of relief deepened into one of disappointment. Her fingers curled like claws and the undead felt metal scratch bone.

The Dancer must have stood, for the gauntlets slipped out of the undead’s shoulders and the swords were tugged from the floor. The undead could barely move but managed to extricate their flask and drink. They felt their back knit itself together, muscle braiding with muscle, skin sliding in layers until the wound was no more than memory. As soon as they could, they twisted around to face the dancer, hand raised in preparation to attempt deflection of any blow.

To their relief, there was no blade for them to catch; the dancer was curled in upon herself, crouching with her weight leaned on her toes, swords crossed and resting upon her knees.

The undead was no diplomat but they felt that, for once, words beat swords. They lifted their hands in a gesture meant to convey _look, no weapons_. As they began to rise shakily to their feet, the Dancer leaned forward and shrilled a warning, so they hurriedly sat back down. They took another sip of estus just to calm their nerves, remembered the camaraderie of their Catarina friend, and held the flask out in a gesture of goodwill.

They decided to stick to their hypothesis. “A toast,” they rasped. “I killed the Pontiff.”

There was a long pause, the oppressive silence weighing upon their nerves, until the Dancer let out a sound that was at once a wail and a giggle. It was short, disbelieving.

They still had his soul, they realized. The twisted thing swirled in the palm of their hand. The Dancer fell silent.

As the tip of a sword pierced through their shoulder, the Ashen One realized that perhaps they had acted too rashly. The Dancer may have hated the Pontiff, but with him dead, there were none left with the arcane knowledge needed to fix his mistakes. They cried out as the blade tugged downwards, catching against their ribcage.

Whatever dance the Dancer had been performing on the razor’s edge of reason, the Undead figured that they had given her a firm shove over the side. Now, hurtling downwards, she was vicious. The sword pulled out and her fingers dug in the hole and tore through flesh like tissue paper. The Dancer cried out just as the undead did, her hand reaching for their heart. They managed to writhe out of her grip, but her other hand merely swung forward and began clawing at their belly. Blood bubbled up the undead’s throat as this time their guts _did_ spill.

The Dancer’s head dipped low and her hands pinned them down as she pressed her helm into the wound. She pushed harder and harder in frustration, burying her face in the entrails, and the undead dimly felt their blood freezing over. The Dancer’s face pulled away, her helm dripping with viscera. She let out a long sigh and let her hands come to rest upon the undead’s hips.

The Ashen One screamed as the Dancer pulled their legs apart and _kept pulling_ and the sickening tearing flooded their ears until they realized that the sounds they were hearing were simply the flames within the bonfire.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
